They called it another loudest night.

The sky over Kyiv burned orange against the darkness. Missiles found their targets. Air raid sirens screamed through the night.

Me - who usually wakes at the slightest sound. But that night, somehow, I slept through it all in supernatural peace.

It was my last night in this country.

Eight months.

That's how long Ukraine has been home. Eight months of learning to love a language I'm still stumbling through. Eight months of discovering that hope can bloom even in bomb shelters. Eight months of being loved by people who had every reason to be too tired, too broken, too afraid to love anyone new.

But they loved me anyway.

This country gave me more than I ever gave it. It taught me what presence means. What staying looks like. What it costs to choose love when the world is falling apart.

I had plans. Long-term plans. Dreams of serving here for years, of becoming fluent not just in Ukrainian words but in Ukrainian hearts.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, my parents discovered where I was. I had kept this from them all these months, hoping to protect them from worry.

The conversation that followed was everything you'd expect. Worry that had been building for months finally erupted. Tears. Demands. The kind of fear that only comes from loving someone so much that the thought of losing them becomes unbearable.

"Come home," they said.

I felt misunderstood.

Sad.

Frustrated.

Here I was, trying to serve, trying to love well. But suddenly all of it felt fragile against the weight of my parents' sleepless nights. These two people who gave me life have spent every day since trying to keep it safe.

How do you weigh your calling against their peace?

After much prayer, I've made my choice.

I'm leaving Ukraine on 4th July. I won't return after this school term ends.

It's not the path I envisioned. But sometimes the most radical act of love isn't following your heart - it's choosing the heart that has loved you longest.

I'll take a long break. Seek other ways to serve, perhaps not too far from here. I still hope to make short visits back.

That supernatural peace on my last night - maybe it wasn't just coincidence.

Maybe it was grace.

A reminder that even when our plans crumble, even when chaos rages around us, there's still a peace that follows us home.

Ukraine will always be part of my story now. The love I've received here, the hope I've discovered here - that travels with me.

And perhaps that's enough.

Perhaps that's exactly what was meant to be.